


The Art of Acceptance

by BadWolfGirl3



Series: Ars Amatoria [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), First Kiss, Getting Together, God I hate tagging, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), I’m sorry, Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, My thing with parenthesis is now a full blown love affair, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pining, Probably a little OOC, They love each other guys, abuse of italics too, so much pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:20:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24141961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadWolfGirl3/pseuds/BadWolfGirl3
Summary: He knows that it starts for him in the 1940’s, but if he’s being honest with himself it’s been much longer than that.(Aziraphale, guardian of the Eastern Gate, may have just gotten to the root of the issue).A look at Aziraphale’s feelings for Crowley before, during, and after the apocalypse. Companion to The Art of Falling
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ars Amatoria [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1742056
Comments: 2
Kudos: 33





	The Art of Acceptance

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! It’s 3:00 in the morning and here I am with a companion piece to my first Good Omens fic, The Art of Falling that no one asked for. Oh well. I’m stuck inside all day, what else can I do but let the late work pile up and do this instead. This is technically part of a series, but can be read as a stand-alone. Hope you enjoy!

He knows that it starts for him in the 1940’s, but if he’s being honest with himself it’s been much longer than that.

It’s a difficult thing, being honest with himself. Sure, Aziraphale has never been one to deny himself much of anything, be it a pastry or new book, but… he’s hedonistic, not veracious.

It’s hard, being honest. Really hard. But when he thinks about it, maybe it started with a play from a playwright he loves bursting into stardom, or crepes by the Seine after a botched beheading, or maybe, just maybe, with golden yellow eyes widening with sweet surprise and the sky opening up for the first time.

(Aziraphale, guardian of the Eastern Gate, may have just gotten to the root of the issue).

...

But. The 1940’s. World War II, a devastating 6 years that nearly brings him to his knees every time he thinks about it.

And he was stupid, so, so, stupid, to set up the double (triple? Quadruple? What does it mean when the double crosser gets double crossed?) crossing but he’s so sick of not being able to do anything for all the suffering humans and thinks maybe with this he might finally _make a bloody difference because he’s supposed to be an angel for heaven’s sake._

He’s just resigned himself to a solid Earth year of paperwork when he hears the doors of the church open and the ridiculous voice of someone who doesn’t quite know what he’s gotten himself into and sees his Crowley hopping down the aisle like some demented bride.

It doesn’t escape his notice how much pain Crowley is in (later, in his shop, he will ease Crowley’s shoes off his raw, blistered feet and the realization of how much he _loves this being_ will hit him once again).

And the church is suddenly gone and he’s standing in a pile of rubble with Crowley no longer hopping about and _he forgot about the books._ It feels like there’s a gaping hole in his chest, because while humans come and go, books and thoughts and words will stay forever if you take care of them carefully enough.

And just like that, without a thought, they’re in Crowley’s outstretched hand, and just like that, without a thought, Aziraphale realizes he’s been utterly and irrevocably in love with the demon since “that went down like a lead balloon.”

…

He thinks that it’s been so hard to acknowledge his feelings for his snake eyed counterpart because he’s been so scared for so long.

Heaven is so beautiful, so perfect, but it is also so unforgiving. Crowley was cast down for asking questions- what would they do to an angel that fell in love with a fallen?

(What would they do to a fallen that fell in love with an angel?)

So he buries his feelings deep down, determined to keep them both safe from heaven and hell, safe from themselves, even though every time he looks at his painfully beautiful enemy (friend, a small, wistful part of him whispers) it feels like he’s wrenching his own heart from his own chest.

(Because Crowley is beautiful. Aziraphale knows he hates his eyes, hates so much about himself, but the angel has always, always, always thought of Crowley as the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen).

Throughout their 6000 years together, through the Ark, Golgotha, Rome, all their time in London and Scotland and everywhere else, Aziraphale keeps Crowley at a safe distance because he’s so afraid that if he doesn’t, he’ll never see him again. And he knows it hurts him, and that there are so many words he wishes he could take back, but he does it all anyway because if he doesn’t have Crowley in his life then he doesn’t want to live at all.

He’d serve Crowley his heart up on a silver platter if he could.

…

He’s devastated when Crowley asks him for holy water.

Oh sure, he says it’s for insurance, not for… that, but all Aziraphale can see is another thing that could sure as hell take his demon away from him. It just leads to another fight, another 100 years of not seeing each other, avoiding each other, another 100 years of wondering “what if” and worrying himself sick among his books and his music and food that mean everything and absolutely nothing to him at the same time.

He’s just as devastated with himself when he caves and gives it to him anyway, because he loves Crowley too much to see him destroy himself trying to get it (and isn’t that an interesting thing; he loves Crowley too much to give him the key to his own destruction but also loves him too much to deny him of it). If the demon uses it to end his own life Aziraphale knows that he will never be the same ever again, and he will never forgive either of them for it.

That night in the Bentley is the closest he gets to saying fuck it (metaphorically of course, he is still an angel of the Lord, thank you very much) and pushing Crowley up against the windows of the Bentley and kissing him until they come up for air they don’t need (because if “I’ll give you a lift, anywhere you want to go” doesn’t absolutely decimate all the walls he’s built up around his heart, nothing will).

He doesn’t, of course, that old fear still taking up space in his heart and his brain, and stays right where he is, the only thing he can come up with in response being, “You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

The words feel like a promise when they leave his lips, even if they’re not.

…

And then the world ends. And that damned fear keeps holding him back, makes him spit poisoned words at the love of his very, very long life, makes him reject Crowley again and again.

He is a coward and he will spend the rest of eternity apologizing for it.

And he’s angry, so angry, at himself, at God, even at Crowley, and he doesn’t quite know why but he knows it’s eating up at him and his connection to the demon, and he’s so stupid because every time he tried to be holier than thou it ended up blowing up in his face.

This whole “being honest with himself” isn’t really all that it’s cracked up to be.

And then the world doesn’t end. And they switch, and they survive, and suddenly it’s not my side or your side it’s _our side_ , and maybe for the first time in 6000 years they can finally take a step forward.

Aziraphale is really sick of waiting.

…

He is, however, quite surprised that it is him who makes the first move.

They’re drunk. Very, very drunk. Aziraphale has come over with a bottle of vintage wine from the 1910’s, because like Crowley somehow knows whenever he’s in danger, Aziraphale somehow knows whenever Crowley is feeling untethered and hurt.

And he’s drunk, on both the wine and the heady feeling of being next to Crowley and he’s tired, so, so, tired, and suddenly his hand is getting ever so close to his companion’s thigh, and suddenly he really just does think, “ _fuck it._ ”

“ _Angel_ ” falls from Crowley’s lips (he doesn’t know when the word became less of an insult and more of an endearment but he loves it all the same) and Aziraphale is _done for._

And they’re kissing, and kissing, and kissing, and he’s pushing Crowley down into that stupid leather couch of his that the demon bought purely for the aesthetic and most certainly not for comfort, and his hands are ripping Crowley’s shirt off and his lips are drifting down, down, down…

Aziraphale decides he’s never felt more blessed in his life.

But then Crowley is suddenly yanking him back up, their eyes meeting, and he says the three words that Aziraphale has needed to hear all along: “I love you.”

And Crowley is afraid, so afraid, Aziraphale can see it in his beautiful golden eyes, and his heart is ready to burst with all the love he feels for the wonderful creature beneath him. He feels a smile nearly split his face in half.

“My dear Crowley,” he says, voice hushed and filled with awe, “what took you so long?”

With that, Crowley hauls him back in and kisses him some more. And suddenly the angel needs more, more, more, more, so he pulls Crowley up and off the couch, leads him towards the bedroom.

He shuts the door with a click and falls back into the arms of the creature he knows he’s going to spend the rest of eternity with.

…

They lie face to face when it’s all over, when they are slick and sated and _so in love_ and their legs are tangled so that you don’t know where one ends and the other begins. And Aziraphale has never felt like this, never felt this much joy.

He never wants to let go.

“You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Aziraphale whispers.

A tear slips down Crowley’s cheek and the angel wipes it away with all the reverence and love he can muster. The demon squeezes his eyes shut for just a moment then chokes out, “I’ve wanted this… for so long…” he trails off as Aziraphale plants a soft kiss on his forehead, understanding everything his love isn’t quite ready to say yet anyway.

“I feel the same, Darling. How I’ve loved you.” And then Crowley is crying and burying his head in Aziraphale’s neck, and it’s all he can do to hold on and keep his love from totally shaking apart.

They fall asleep that way, Aziraphale for the first time in many, many years, with Crowley’s head on his chest and Aziraphale’s arms wrapped tightly around him.

In the morning, Crowley looks at him with rumpled red hair and bleary eyes and a blinding smile, and as he presses a soft kiss to the angel’s lips, Aziraphale thinks that maybe this whole honesty thing isn’t that bad after all.

**Author's Note:**

> And there you have it! I love our ineffable idiots. If you liked it, please drop a comment or kudos, and excuse any of the grammatical errors, all the parenthesis, and the run on sentences. I am also but a humble asexual, so if the kissing stuff seems weird... well there you have it. Stay safe everyone, WEAR FACEMASKS IN PUBLIC AND PRACTICE SOCIAL DISTANCE FOR THE LOVE. Thanks! :)


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